


Names are Burdens

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel Feels [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Doctor Sexy M.D., Fluff and Angst, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mark of Cain, Memories, Memory Loss, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't remember anything - all he knows is that his nurse is kind and she makes things a little easier. But he knows he's missing something, or someone and no matter how many times this monitor flat lines, it's not death he needs to be afraid of - it's forgetting those who made him live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Names are Burdens

 

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”

          _What?_

“Wh—”

            _Why does it hurt to talk?_

“Wh-what h-happened?”

“Sir, you were in an accident. Please, tell me your name.”

            _Accident?_

“I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know your name?”

            _I should know that._

“No.”

“That’s okay, sir. You’re doing great … just hold still.” The nurse reaches down and adjusts something around his neck.

            _Am I wearing a brace?_

“Wh—” he croaks. “What happened to me?”

The nurse looks at him, _scared_ —sad … seeming almost as confused as he is. “I was hoping you could tell us, sir.” She smiles softly, pulling back her hands to secure the IV in his arm. He watches as her eyes narrow and he feels her fingers travel up his skin. “Where did you get this scar? It … it kind of looks like—like you were _branded_.”

He tries to look down but his head is stuck.

          _Scar?_

“I—I’m not sure.”

“That’s alright, sir. We’ll figure this out.” The nurse pushes her fingers into his palm, and he realizes, he’s been clenching his fist. “We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

He nods.

            _What happened?_

The nurse backs away, letting her hand slip out of his hold— _he misses it_ and he’s not sure why. It’s as if his hand has been missing a hold for years— _all his life_. The small, kind-faced woman turns and pushes through the curtain of his make-shift room; in a moment, her voice carries softly back to him and he hears her explain to some faceless person outside, how he might be a victim of torture; that his scars are too unique and deliberate to be accidental. He hears her say that there is still no ID and no emergency contact information.

“He’s a John Doe for now.”

            _John?_

The name sounds familiar. His eyes widen. He sees red. He sees blue. He hears the screams. The skin around the scar on his arm begins to burn.

            _What the hell happened to me?_

***

“Hey’ya, Freckles. How’s my favorite patient doing today?”

He looks up at Millie as she saunters to his bedside with a new IV bag. “I’d be a hell of a lot better if you stopped calling me _Freckles_.”

Millie’s face turns sour as she looks down from placing the bag on the hook above his head. “Oh my god, you’re so picky. You don’t like _John_ , you don’t like _Freckles_ , you didn’t even like that other patient calling you ‘Captain Sexy-Green Eyes’ … I mean, what are we supposed to call you? Just _Hey, Amnesia Guy?_ ”

“I’d prefer you call me _discharged_.”

She drops her arms and slumps a bit, pressing her lips together until her face seems flat and expressionless. “Sweetie, you know I can’t do that. You still got a pretty bad infection and I kinda like you being _alive_ and grumpy. It makes my day.” She slides her arm over the railing of his bed to let her hand fall onto his wrist. “ _You know,_ if you would have just cooperated with the police, we might actually know your name by now … and what happened to you.”

“No police! I told you that!” he snaps, feeling guilty with the serious glare he gives her—but it’s necessary. It’s for all their safety. He feels that in his gut.

            _I wish I could just explain it to you._

“I know. _I know_ …” she smiles softly while turning away from him to write something on the chart that’s laying on the counter beside his bed. “I just really hope you don’t turn out to be a _murderer_ or something, because you have me breaking _all sorts_ of protocols here by not letting the authorities get involved.” She glances back to him with a sly smile, but something in her eyes confesses that she’s serious in her concern.

He scoots back down in the bed, wanting desperately to move away from this subject. He tosses a glance out the open door of his room. A few doctors are huddled together outside, looking at a chart with their hands on their hips. He watches their balding heads nod, and their chubby bellies bounce as they chuckle over things that are probably not funny at all. They look homely and uninteresting. It makes him depressed, and he’s not even sure why.

“Hey, Millie?”

“Yes, _Grumpy Amnesia Guy?_ ”

He scrunches up his nose and makes a face at her. She smiles and pats him on the shoulder before moving down to check on the dressing around his leg. He watches as she ensures that the infection hasn’t gotten worse— _he knows it has_ , but he won’t worry her with it. “Are any of the doctors around here actually attractive? Or are they all just balding, overweight dudes who have horrible senses of humor?”

Millie looks up from his leg, puzzled and questioning. “ _What_ … am I not pretty enough for you? You need someone _steamier_ to look at?” The smile that follows her remark makes one form on his face too.

“ _Shut up_ … you’re fine. I just thought there’d be at least _one_ doctor around here who was, ya know … _hot_.”

Millie shakes her head and puts the blanket back over his leg. “This isn’t _Doctor Sexy M.D_., sweetie. If it was, I’d probably be getting lucky in the on-call room right now, instead of dealing with _your_ grumpy butt.”

          _Dr. Sexy … what?_

He gives a halfhearted smile as his mind wanders into shadowy places that edge on familiar, but also scare him and make him feel all too alone.

“ _Hey_ … you okay?” Millie asks, apparently noticing his worry. She reaches out and holds his hand, just like she did four weeks ago when he first came here.

He relaxes with her touch. “Yeah. _I just,_ I thought I was remembering something.”

“ _Well_ , that’s good isn’t it?” She squeezes his hand as she waits for him to answer.

He frowns, knowing he can’t tell her what she wants to hear. He wishes he could and he’s not even sure _why_ he can’t, but he knows … _he just can’t._ “I don’t think it is, Mill.”

“ _Mill_? _What?_ Was _Millie_ too long for you to say, or did you just forget the other half?” she chuckles, always knowing exactly _when_ and _how_ to break the tension.

“ _Nah_ , I just always shorten names.”

The kind nurse pauses before placing her other hand on top of the one that’s holding his. “You do? You remember that?”

            _Do I remember that?_

“ _Uh_ , yeah … kind of, I guess … I just know it’s something I do.”

“Well, that’s good, sweetie.” She squeezes his hand again. “That’s _really good_.”

***

“No, no, no! Stay with us, sweetie! _Come on!_ ” Her cries mix in with the _beeps_ and _pings_ of the machines.

          _I’m here._

“Where’s the crash cart?” Dr. Taylor’s gravelly voice rumbles over him. It’s oddly comforting now that he can’t open his eyes to see the man’s bad comb-over; his voice just _doesn_ ’t match his face.

“Come on, sweetie. You’re too grumpy to die.” Millie’s voice cracks. She sounds scared.

          _I’m not dying, I can’t._

He’s not sure how he knows, _but he does._

Dr. Taylor rumbles in his ear once more. “Everyone stand, back … charge to 500. _Clear!_ ”

His body jumps—his nerves freeze. His scar burns and aches.

“Still nothing!”

Dr. Taylor groans. “Charge to 700! _Clear!_ ”

“ _Come on!_ ” Millie pleads.

Another voice sings from somewhere in the room. “Should we go again?”

“ _Hold on_ …” Dr. Taylor grumbles.

He lets the roar massage his bones.

A silence fills the room—then a set of _beeps_ , and then a collective sigh.

“We got a rhythm!” Millie chirps. “Don’t do that to me again, you stubborn bastard!” He feels his arm get a slap.

“ _Millie!_ I know you’re close with him, but he’s _still_ a patient! Show some professionalism.” Dr. Taylor chides, his voice sounding even lower and more serious.

He feels his muscles soften with the noise in spite of the electricity still coursing through every inch of his body. _He wants to hear more._

Millie’s breathless, airy chuckle mixes in delicately with the thunder fading from the air. “He knows if he dies, it’s kind of a bastard-thing to do!”

He can’t see it, but he imagines Dr. Taylor is rolling his eyes.

“ _Still_ , just show a little decorum, please!”

Padded footsteps soon fade out the door, along with the sounds of squeaky wheels and other mumbling voices. The room quickly quiets except for the sound of his newly beating heart. It powers through his body, making it feel as if it’s jumping off the bed. He tries to calm it, make it ease—he knows he used to be able to do that easily … _somehow._

“Hey, sweetie. Can you do me a favor?”

Millie’s gentle voice startles him, making his heart race even more and his already labored breath, catch in his throat.

              _You’re still in here?_

“I … I really need you to not die, okay?” her words are shaky and sound on the verge of tears.

He’s never heard her like this—she’s usually assertive and strong, and cocky … like him, like how he used to be.

“I see too many people die already. Can you _please_ , just please not be one of them?”

He wants to reach out and hold her hand, but his body is still—trapped against its own limitations.

          _I won’t, okay? I promise._

His hand is soon collected into hers anyway—her soft skin smoothing over his callouses, making his heart finally slow.

“I … I just feel like, if you die, the world is going to lose someone _really_ important. I don’t know why, but you just seem to have a pretty big pull around here … sounds kinda dumb, _I know._ ”

            _You could never sound dumb, Mill._

“Just please, hang around, okay?”

          _I will._

Minutes pass with their fingers still entwined and soon, he’s relaxed enough that he feels his mind start to drift off to sleep. His body hurts and his scar burns, and his head is starting to throb from all the commotion. He’s tired and he knows, if he’s ever going to get out of here—he needs to sleep—he need to _heal_. He feels Millie’s hand squeeze his one more time.

“Get some rest, sweetie. I’ll be back in an hour.”

            _I’ll be here._

“Don’t you go anywhere.”

            _Where could I go?_

“Not like you can really leave.”

            _That’s what I’m saying._

“Just … if you see any bright lights or anything, _don’t_ go into them.” Her voice cracks in the middle of her forced laugh.

          _If that’s the only way I leave  here, Mill … there won’t be any lights waiting for me._

***

“Scrabble?”

“ _Yeah_ … word association and all that junk. Maybe it’ll force your brain to think of things that wouldn’t normally come to mind. It might help you remember stuff.”

He grimaces. “I was never great at this game.”

Millie smirks. “ _See_ , it’s working already!”

            _Maybe._

“Alright, so go over what you remember so far” the playful nurse hums as she sets up the board in front of him.

“Again? I’ve done it like six times today” he groans, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

“ _Yes_! Repetition is supposed to help, so … _get to it_ , Mr.” she hisses while arranging seven tiles onto his little, wooden tray at the edge of the game board.

He sighs and stares at her a moment before finally giving in. “I shorten names. I don’t like cops. I _suck_ at scrabble, apparently … I like sweet stuff … _mostly pie_. _God_ , I love me some pie—”

“And men with deep voices.”

He squints at his scrub-covered friend. “I should have _never_ told you that.”

Her hands fly up to wave off his tension. “No judgment here, sweetie. Who isn’t a sucker for a sexy, deep voice?”

“I just said it was _soothing_! Who knows, my father could have had a deep voice or something!”

Millie raises her eyebrows into the brown, side-swept bangs that play upon her forehead. “ _Well_ , unless you and your father had some _weird ass_ relationship, I don’t think you should get the smile you do when you overhear Dr. Taylor talking out in the hall.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” he flicks one of the letter tiles at Millie’s face, making her flinch and grin.

“ _Oh good!_ Now I know you have a Q! You really _do_ suck at this game … you’re not supposed to show me your letters.”

“I don’t think _one_ Q is going to screw me.”

Millie smirks at him. “ _Whatever_ , just hurry up and start … I can’t hide out in here all day.”

An hour passes and the game board is soon covered in words—mostly a mix of medical jargon and heavily debated terms that Millie still isn’t sure actually count.

“ _Wendigo_ is not a flippin’ word!”

“ _It is!_ Look it up!”

“I swear to god, you might _actually_ be insane … you know that?” She gestures over the board while gritting her teeth. “You had _pishtaco_ and _buruburu_ , and then you tried to pass off _Jefferson Starships_ as one word, and now _wendigo_? Your brain must be a bigger mess than we thought!”

“Or maybe it’s just _bigger_ … maybe it holds more than yours ever could—more than yours could _ever imagine!_ ”

Millie stares at him, unimpressed and unconvinced. “ _Uh huh_. Okay _Hawkings_ , a couple more rounds and then I gotta go.”

He grins at her as she looks over her tiles to find another word. “ _Hawkings_ … I like it. If we never figure out my real name, you can call me that.”

Millie huffs a laugh as she picks up a few game pieces and shuffles them around her tray. “ _Yeah_ , and you can call me _Marilyn Monroe_ since you obviously want to go for _complete opposites_ right now.”

“You could totally pull of that white dress …” he hums appreciatively, watching as her eyes flick up.

“Yeah, _okay_ … so you like men with deep voices and women in revealing, white dresses. _Well_ , I think we got your sexuality pegged.” Millie grins as he rolls his eyes. In another moment, she reaches out and places a _B_ and an _I_ onto the game board.

***

“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go in there!”

“I’m a federal officer and that man is … is _important_ to my investigation. I _demand_ you let me in.”

“Well, he’s quarantined … only authorized personnel is allowed.”

He hears Millie’s voice pitch frantically as she argues with the gravel-toned man outside.

“If that were true, then why is his door open? You obviously are very lax about your quarantined patients around here.”

He strains his neck as he tries to look out the open door. His heart is racing—he can’t make it quiet … and he’s not sure he wants to.

          _F.B.I? What the hell?_

“Sir! _No,_ I must insist, you can’t go in there!”

He sees Millie come into view a moment as she steps back to block the man from his door. He catches a solitary glimpse of the officer’s tan coat. His heart stops.

“I do not want to use force with you, mam—but I will if you do not step aside.” The man’s voice is so low, it seems to shake the earth; and his heart begins to race again—but not with nerves or fear— _with excitement._

“ _Please_ … he doesn’t remember anything. He’s a _good guy_. I don’t know why you’re looking for him, but he really is a good guy. _Please_ …” Millie sounds defeated but still desperate, and he can’t help but smile with the care that hugs her words.

“I … I know he is a good man. That’s _why_ I need to see him.”

He sees Millie step back again, still blocking the door, but the man moves in front of her—and he sees blue, and dark hair, and tan fabric, and years and years of hurt—and _memories_.

“ _No_ … you can’t.” Millie begs, stretching out her arms across the door frame.

“ _Mill!_ ” he yells, making the nurse turn around to look at him. Tears are shimmering in her eyes and all the confidence she usually wears around her like a flowing gown, has been shredded away. “Mill, let him in.”

He watches her heart break as she shakes her head. “Sweetie, _no_ … he’s going to take you away.”

He smiles at her, feeling his own eyes burn with the salty water that’s starting to seep along their edges. He shakes his head. “ _Him_? No …”

The nurse drops her arms slowly as she looks back to the dark haired man in front of her—after another moment, she shifts back to her favorite patient, still wounded, _still dying_ —still in need of her protection. He reads her like a book, but he knows … she _needs to move_. She needs to let the man inside … _this man_ , this man could never hurt him—he knows it … _somehow_. He nods to her, curving his eyes to try and ensure that she understands. She shakes her head again but he only responds with another nod.

            _It’s okay. It’s really okay._

Seconds crawl past their bodies, scratching their skin with each step. Finally, with a heavy breath, she moves away from the opening to his room, nearly falling back as the agent pushes past her.

“ _Dean_ , are you alright?”

He stares into the man’s blue eyes, relaxing as they cover him from his toes to the top of his head. His voice is deep and kind, and it brings back the shadows of things he thinks he might know, but he’s not scared anymore—not with the man standing here, close at his side.

Millie moves into the room, looking between him and the agent, and slowly, the worry starts to fall from her face. “ _Dean_? Your name is _Dean_?”

The agent squints his eyes as he turns back to face her. “ _Of course_ his name is Dean, how do you not know your own patient’s names?”

“He has _amnesia_ , smart guy! He can’t remember _anything_ … including his name.”

The man squints even more, until his eyes are almost closed. He turns back to the hospital bed, quickly reaching out to touch the patient’s clammy forehead. In another second, he drops his hand—looking sad and overcome. “I’m sorry, Dean … I can’t heal you. The mark won’t let me.”

Millie is soon standing at the other side of her patient, snapping out her hand to hold his. He watches as she glares at the F.B.I agent, her chest heaving with pent up words. “ _Heal him?_ I thought you were supposed to be with the F.B.I … who the hell are you, _really_?”

He squeezes her hand, drawing her kind, brown eyes back towards his greens. “It’s okay, Mill.”

“How do _you_ know? This guy is _obviously_ not who he says he is!”

He looks back towards the man, swimming in a coat that’s too big, still holding a badge that is obviously fake, and looking like he is capable and _willing_ to kill everyone in this place if he doesn’t get his way— _yet_ , he feels safe for the first time now that he’s here. He can’t explain it, but as soon as he heard the man’s voice and saw his messy head of hair, and those shocking, blue eyes roll through the door of his room, he started to feel whole again. He pushes himself up in his bed, until he’s sitting the best he can. After another moment, he pulls his hand away from Millie’s, making her frown a little.

          _I’m sorry._

But as much as he hates to see her this way—as much as he hates making her worry, he knows that it’s not _her_ hold that he really needs.

“My name is _Dean_?” he asks, finally looking back to the man at his left.

“Yes … you’re name is _Dean Winchester_. Son of John and Mary Winchester, brother of—of Sam Winchester” the man whispers, looking saddened as he finishes.

“ _Sam?_ ” Dean chokes, feeling suddenly panicked as his eyes fall back towards the door. The urge to run has never been so great.

“Yes … he’s … _he’s okay_.”

Dean looks up to the man again, somehow knowing he’s lying but his attention is drawn back to Millie as he hears her huff.

“Well, we _still_ don’t know who _you_ are, so— _spill_!”

Dean closes his eyes and reaches out, snaking his hand over the railing to grasp the man’s fingers—the man who has seemingly appeared out of _nowhere_ , but also, _everywhere_. He opens his eyes once more and looks into the blues, and then slowly over to the browns, wishing he could remember all that fell in between—but he does know _one thing_ , and it’s like he’s never truly forgotten it.

“It’s okay, Mill.” He smiles at her, and watches as she gives him halfhearted one in return. “He’s mine … _okay?_ That’s who he is— _he’s mine._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> For more Destiel/Cockles fluff, angst and overall feels, take a look at the rest of my Ao3!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: castiel-left-his-mark-on-me
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
